


When I do picture myself happy, it's with You

by hellhoundsprey



Series: twinsanity!verse [3]
Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Addiction, Physical Abuse, Possessive Dean Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Violent Sex, implied eating disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4970476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even in a new city and even after endless moments that eventually turned into years, the same old ghosts are still hunting Dean. Unfortunately, not every ghost is something he wants to get rid of.</p><p>(This story takes place four years after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4491492">ThaBwwdfY</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING** : This story deals with various sensitive topics and I advise you to check the tags very closely before starting to read. This story is written in Dean's POV, first person, and his perception of reality is highly selective. He is unaware of or indifferent to the amount of suffering he causes. 
> 
> Please do never think it is admireable or romantic to be treated like Sam is in this story. Accepting abuse in order to "stand by" your partner and "prove your loyalty" for them has nothing to do with love and will never ever lead to happiness. Just because Sam doesn't want to realize what is done to him doesn't make it right.

It's a good week. I went to my AA meetings (all of 'em, mind you), sent out a few job applications, found a cheap place to get Dad's meds. Sammy's starting to get used to the place, too. Yeah, it's small alright, but all pipes are working and the windows are airtight. My first paycheck will go into a more comfortable sleeping couch for Dad, but until then, the bed is ours to share - mine and Sammy's.

That kid's new favorite thing to do - besides being a nagging little bitch twenty-four seven, of course - is _growing_. It's unreasonable at this point, for fuck's sake. An entire head taller than me; can you believe it? _And I don't even get me started with his cock._ I thought he'd stop at some point, but nah. Since he's such a smart kid, he won't even start the topic with me, doesn't talk back when I make a little joke; he knows it pisses me off. Yeah, he's my smart little boy, even at six fucking two.

He's tried to talk me into seeing a shrink or something, said someone at his college knows someone who knows someone who could get me in even with our (how Dad calls it) "Eyelid Insurance". (What do you see when you close your eyes? Nothing. Exactly what we have as an insurance.) Told him all nice and polite that I was very fine and he could go fuck himself, thank you very much.

No. I'm alright. I really am. See, I haven't thought about you this entire week, and it's already Thursday afternoon.

A block around Sam's college and I'm waiting for him, autumn air and exhaust fumes in my lungs, and I light myself a cig and don't think about you. People pass me by and they could as well be invisible. That's what they are to me, really. They're gawking over me drinking my damn coffee (that hasn't changed since we were just little brats, do you remember?, always the eyes on our pretty pink lips) and the barista flushed and smiled and probably wet her panties a little bit; but fuck, they can all go to Hell if you ask me. They're not you.

And so I'm not thinking about you, you know, because I don't, because it's a fucking _good_ _week_ \- and in the corner of my eyes I see two kids skateboarding down the street and I'm done for. Two little brats, you know, your typical "oh my God I hate today's kids" kids. I thought of Chicago, of Indianapolis - our damn skater phase, our completely shredded knees and how your blood tasted when I licked yours like a dog. Suddenly, I taste it all over again, can fucking taste _you_ in my mouth, and I'm done for.

It's good that I'm here and that there's only ten or so minutes to go before Sam will sprint around the corner like a goddamn lightning bolt on stilts. I can do ten minutes. I _can_. Deep drags make the end of my cig beam cherry-red and I concentrate on the scratch of burning hot smoke down my throat; ignore the sweat, the itch in places I didn't know would exist. I scan faces now, bodies, even. Anything that keeps me from marching into the next alley. There are _many_ alleys in big cities, Jen; you know that, and you know me. You don't know though that I've been clean for three straight months now. We haven't talked in almost four years.

But I'm not thinking of you, and it's a good week, so I'll be good, I'll be good; for Sammy, for Dad, for myself.

I can't rush from my seat fast enough as soon as I see that terrible haircut round the corner I knew it'd eventually pop out from. He's like a puppy, and he can deny it as much as he wants but I do _know_ he actually _wags his fucking tail_ whenever he puts his eyes on me. My good boy.

"Hey!" He looks surprised. Yeah, well, I almost ran right into him, so I guess he's got a reason.

"Hey," I respond and get on my toes to reach his mouth. I feel him tense but I don't care; people are staring anyway, and it's a big city where nobody gives a flying shit about to guys exchanging spit in broad daylight. But Sam is shy and so so cute, and I let him slide his ginormous hands up my neck to cup my cheeks while I suck on his tongue that tastes like everything but blood, like everything but all the tastes that bring me back to you. He tastes like me and him and books and empty stomach and definitely not enough like my dick. That'll change soon enough. "Missed you," I swoon between his lips and I swear he fucking _sighs_ at that.

"How long've you been waiting?"

"Long enough. You taste hungry. Let's get somethin' inside that belly that isn't my jizz."

" _Dean_."

"What? I'm jus' tryna take care of my college boy."

It's the cutest thing, really, when he looks at me like that. Something between "I want to kill you" and "I love you" and "Oh God please fuck me here in front of everyone" and "Oh God you are the most embarrassing soccer mom excuse ever". "Jerk," he barks.

I laugh my "bitch".

We get him a sandwich stuffed with rabbit food. His mommy probably truly dropped him on his head when he was a tiny little bean, because he won't stop refusing any form of meat. I don't know what to do with him sometimes. Big boy like him needs his protein - but there he is, my little bean pole. (He hates it when I call him like that. Which doesn't stop me, of course.) At least he still eats dairy. When he goes vegan, I'll drag _his_ ass to therapy. Goddamn hippie kid. Always knew colleges would brainwash people… not that Sam was exactly "normal" before, but, eh. I ain't too fond of that shit. (But you know that.)

But oh, how he _loves_ it. It's nowhere near where he could have gone if it wasn't for me, of course. With his GPA, he'd get a free ride for _any_ college. We both are great at avoiding that thought, it seems. I had this rather emotional night when he just started enrolling and tried to get it out of him if he's really (like, _really_ really) okay with fifth or fourth choices, with engineering instead of that robot thingy of his. Of course, he played the innocence card on me, the doe eyes and that tiny voice he sometimes makes when it's only the two of us. Of course, I know that he's indeed not okay with that. That he deserves more, far more than I can provide him with. "Without me," I said, "you could go anywhere." "There's nowhere else for me to be but here," he replied to that, the fucking twat.

Dad loves him. It's almost adorable with these two. I don't know how I deserve this. They play chess with that old game Dad dragged along ( _how_ the Hell, old man) for hours and Sam would still nod and be all serious about Dad's marine stories, would listen and tell him "sir, you did a great job" and "sir, no, you _had_ to leave them behind, it was the only possibility". I watch them do these little things and I could die a happy man right then and there. My two morons.

I watch Sam devour his late lunch with ravenous appetite and finish my cig. It doesn't take long for my mouth or fingers to get bored, so I play with my teeth and the seams of my jeans' pockets. When I speak, everything is a performance, every last bit of it: "Is Sarah painting today?"

Of course, baby boy almost chokes on his food. Of course, I absolutely drown him in eye contact, let my lashes droop low, just so that he has to look through both mine and his own. "She, uh. Yeah."

Thank God.

When Sarah is painting, she's at the college's studio - aka not at home. Her apartment is tiny, but there is no old man lurking around inside of it. Only two young, very grateful, very sexually desperate men; every once in a while. Sam got to know her during his first week and only the devil knows why she felt like befriending my dear Mr. Awkward. Sarah's a real cutie; around Sam's age, perky little tits, soft mouth - a nice girl who probably sucks a real mean dick. If she hadn't made it so crystal clear that she was absolutely not interested in such a thing with me, I'd had tapped that at least a dozen times by now. But huh. You can't force a lady. Not that I'd need to, either, with Sam's utter obsession about getting my dick inside of him one way or another.

I ain't too sure if Dad knows what's up. We're careful around him, always have been, but after almost four years, I think no play of pretend can be that convincing anymore. Still, I don't wanna get too busy with Dad around. It just doesn't feel right. I love him, yeah, but he doesn't have to hear me getting at it, you know? That's just… gross.

Anyway, Sarah's a Samaritan and got a copy of her key made for Sam after hearing about our "unfortunate room situation" at home. I mean, I don't care that much, to be honest, but yet it's strangely satisfying to have this little "safe" place here where it's only us and where I can make him squirm and moan all I want without upsetting anyone, where I have him all for myself in a cozy, warm, nice smelling place. There's a painting in the corridor that we flip around when we're in, so that poor girl doesn't have to involuntarily take a peep at the mess I kinda tend to fuck out of her dear friend. We even have our own sheets here. Sarah is adorably thoroughly in her organization.

It's a good week. Sammy's tiny little ass (how does he even _keep_ _it_ that way) still nice and open from this morning, so getting my dick inside of him is rather uncomplicated. It's good - no, pretty damn _fine_ , actually - and soothes whatever there squirms inside of me; never fails to do that. Fucking Sam through wall and/or floor until he's forgotten everything but my name is all therapy I need.

"Maybe we should get you a plug, huh? Make you sit through your courses like that all day, nice 'n stuffed with my load still in your belly-" Actually, I want to add some more, but those are all the sprinkles Sam's nineteen-year-old stamina can endure. After all these years, you would think he'd finally built up somewhat of a tolerance against the shit I pull with him - but nah. It's fascinating, somehow. I never get tired of making a mess of him.

I don't smoke in here because Sarah hates it and because Sam is non-stop worried to push our limits with her patience. Which probably is impossible, since she is - as I said - an angel, but hey. That's Sam, I guess.

Sam gets his hair cut every once in a while now. It suits him, but I must say I miss those inches. Probably took too many chances to pull his mop up into ponytails. Still, I like to play with it. Especially in Sarah's bed, without a smoke, high on Sam and sex and Sam. He loves it, even though he says he doesn't. Nobody makes sounds like that if they don't like things. "You meant that with the plug?" His voice is sleepy and raspy-deep.

I twirl the current strand of hair tighter around my finger. "Want me to mean it?"

"Mh." He rolls over, closer to me, wraps his arms around me. When we're lying down, almost nothing has changed from four years back. He still fits right there above my heart, against my neck, just simply against and on me. I close my eyes and breathe the scent of his hair. Both our chests vibrate with his chuckle. "Definitely would spice up my days, I guess."

When I curl my lips for a smirk, his locks tickle them. "Mmmh. Slut."

"Hey, it was _your_ idea."

"Yeah, but you approve of it. That's at least just as filthy as just puttin' it out there."

He gives me an eye roll and a warm kiss under my chin. "Whatever." While he gets up to retrieve his clothes from all over the floor, I keep lying on my back, stretch a little, yawn. A peek at the artsy wall clock tells me it's almost six. Since I wanna walk him to work, I sigh and give in.

The outer sight of Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc isn't too pretty, and according to Sam's probably already downplayed stories, working in their tech support isn't, either. But my Sammy is brave and good and the only one of us with a job right now, so nobody loses a bad word about it. I give him a reassuring pat on the back with the one and dig for my pack of smokes with the other hand. He sighs and I say, "Later." The tiniest eyes and flattest smile and he responds with his usual, "Yeah." Sam currently runs on three to four hours of sleep in between job and college while I am so bored out of my mind that I am starting to contemplate letting Dad teach me chess.

On my walk home, I recollect a list of the places I applied to. I need replies, and I need positive ones. I could do two, so that Sam might even be able to reduce his hours a little. Every time I start regretting not finishing high school, we're in a situation I could in no way use time on that kind of stuff. I need replies; we need money. It's a good week. Maybe there'll be something in the mail tomorrow.

"Hey Dad." I slip out of my jacket and give him a little pat on the shoulder. He doesn't look up - he's writing again. Sam says it's a good way to cope with his traumas; I say it's a sure sign the meds are definitely kicking in. "How's it goin'? You ate?"

"Yeah yeah," he grumbles. Like every time I get the chance, I peek at his fingers gripping the pen. Like every time, I sigh in relief that they're steady in their movements.

The microwave heats up my share of the leftovers. Turned out pretty fast that Sam is just as much of a disastrous cook as Dad. Can you _believe_ that? It's a fucking _curse_ with you morons, I swear to God. They are lucky to have me around or otherwise they would either die from food poisoning or go bankrupt from completely senseless grocery shopping. I still don't know how I got us through St. Paul. We were only, what, eight? I didn't even know how to spell "casserole" (French, always with the French, _fuck_ ), but I knew how to live off a dollar a day. (Two, actually, because you had one, too.) While I eat, I watch Dad. Barely a word makes sense from upside down, but the pictures he scribbles here and there say it all.

Soon after I get him to watch some John Wayne classics with me on the tiny TV, he falls asleep. He might like to tell himself that he's still tough 'n shit, but in the end, he's an old man who needs prune juice and sleep. Maybe not in that order, but, eh. I turn the volume down low and that's alright since I know the lines by heart anyway. I pull the blanket over him and stay awake with smokes and Wayne until I hear Sammy in the stairway.

We brush our teeth together and not two minutes with his ear on the pillow, the kid's out. I run my fingers through his hair, pet his skin; it's so soft on the ears. Had yours been this soft, too? Shit, Jen, I can't remember anymore. That's a good thing though, right? Means that there's enough space between us now that I start forgetting stuff. Fuck. I don't want to forget. But this here can't go on forever, either. You left, and I have to accept that. I shuffle closer to Sam, ignore my own heartbeat over the one I feel in his chest when I place my forehead against it. He smells nothing like you. I know that because I doubt I'll ever be able to forget your scent.

When I wake up, Sam is already gone. A sticky note on the fridge says it hopes that I'll "have a great day". I blink, blink again. No, that _really_ is a smiling cactus right there.

Coffee for Dad 'n me, shower, mailbox. A handful of envelops make my pulse speed up. I open them together with Dad and we discuss which places to call back for interviews. I end up with two carpentries and a construction site. Sam gets a snapshot of the scattered papers on the table and another one with me giving a thumbs up and a wide grin squeezed next to Dad's ever-so-murderous casual expression. He replies with "well done". Ah, in fact well done. Yes. This is going good. I feel giddy.

The interview isn't until noon so I busy myself with laundry. On the four stories down until I reach the basement, I return an escaped one of Mrs. Turner's cats (urgh, damn allergies) and get a handful of cookies in return which I polish off on the spot. She offers to make more and I tell her with a wink that my Dad'd be more than happy if she brought him some. She blushes and giggles and oh God, please let me never become this old.

The basement isn't exactly habitable, but we've had worse. Our clothes will survive it… at least as long as I don't hang 'em up to dry down here. When I enter the washroom, someone's crouching behind a shifted washing machine and makes pretty unhappy sounds. "Broke down?" I set the laundry basket on top of one of the other public ones.

"Yeah," the guy grunts, "Freaking drains are about as useful as Bush Junior's presidency."

I chuckle while I get the machine ready. A curse, a sound as if a metal tool fell to the ground. I raise my eyebrows and take a few steps into the guy's direction. "Need a hand down there?"

He snorts his laughter and leans forward from behind the machine he's working on to reveal a very amused and very cocky little face. "Sweetheart, that's awfully cute of you, but I'm kinda busy right now."

A terrier, I think. He looks like a _terrier_. Those quirky little guys that are meant to hunt rats. Ah, fuck, too much National Geographic. Anyway; I hand him the hex driver that tumbled a few feet out of his reach. "If you say so, sir."

Yeah man, I saw that little twitch your face just did; that silent little "oh". He's halfway through his thirties, maybe; wearing an overall which is, needless to say, tagged with the word "janitor". Not exactly what I'd call my type... but I like his attitude. Like, just like right now, where he's finding his composure after mere fragments of seconds, and fuck, that's one _hell_ of a game face. "I think you forgot your panties over there."

"They can wait." I crouch to my knees and push into his space as carefree as I can make it work while I take a look at the damage. "Ouch. That looks pretty bad."

"You should see my ex-wife, kid."

I laugh, run my fingers over the rusty metal. "Couldn't fix your marriage, think you'll fix this shit here? Eh, I don't know, old man."

"The one _made_ me pay, the other _pays_ me. Entirely different set of motivations. Anyway." His shoulder bumps into mine, _hard_. The guy is sneering at me while I barely get a hold of my balance. "Click - rrrrrt - click - repeat: 'I'm kinda busy right now'. If you don't mind."

Aw fuck. I gotta have this one. "Sure thing." I get back up and "forget" to pull my sweatpants those lost few inches back up. My butt is not exactly out there, but I definitely make sure to let it show when I strut back to my laundry. His eyes are totally there until I hear the tools pick back up. He whistles under his breath and I chuckle over Sam's socks. Nice timing. Fuck. I bite my lip to busy my mouth. My pants slide to dangerous lows as I stretch my arms over my head and give a nice, long yawn, let my shoulders crack, roll my head. Product is still to be added to my hair, so I ruffle it harshly. If someone can pull off the "straight out of bed" look, then it's me, right now, right here. He stays quiet but I know I've got him by the short and curlies. He might be feisty, but I _know_ feisty. I practically _breathe_ feisty. This is fuckin' Tom and Jerry; "Janitor and Twink" edition.

So I prepare to bring out the big guns; the "grande finale" (fucking French, man). I could grab the basket, crouch down and unload it into the washing machine drum. Instead, I grab the basket, _bend over_ and unload it into the washing machine drum - and I take my sweet sweet time to do it. Not a single side glance from my side, no. I know what I'm doing. I know what it does to others. Dad didn't raise no dumb kid.

I'm not even completely done when I hear the working come to a halt and have to suppress the grin that wants to curl into my lips. When I turn my head to see what he is doing, he is wiping his hands on his thighs while walking towards me. I almost choke on my laughter. The guy is fucking _tiny_. But shit, he's fit. Compact, as they say; and his eyes are so fast and sharp that I don't know if I can trust this calm smile.

We can both see the first hints of a bulge in each other's pants. We both "ignore" it. "You done?"

"Ah, you know, I'm starting to think I don't have the right equipment with me to handle this problem." Maybe I stumbled into a hidden camera porn production. His lines surely sound like I did. It shouldn't get me even more riled up, should it? Shit. I _need_ to have this one. I lick my lips and make it look unconscious. "I'll just go grab the correct-" His eyes dart from my lips to my neck to my eyes. "-tool for this, then I'll be right back. Or... maybe you wanna tag along? Learn a trick or two?"

My composure breaks in a teeth-baring grin. God, this guy. This week. Fuck! "Dude, I think you've got the correct tool right-"

My head is banged onto the top of the washing machine so hard and so suddenly that I see a burst of stars before my eyes. His fingers dig into my hair and pin me down good while the other yanks my pants right down to my knees. That makes the stars return. "-there," I finally finish. I manage a laugh through my breathlessness until he slams my head down once more. My hands scramble up and forward to circle my head and to give me support. Even though I don't show any sign of resistance (even push it out for him, goddammit), he places a tough blow right on my ass. I hiss a "shit" and get another, and even silence won't make it stop. "Shit, dude; this drain here needs more tool, less handiwor- FUCK!" That one was _mean_.

"Looks to me like it's working just fine." He grabs my cock, which is a damn soldier and as hard as it can get. A rough squeeze makes me groan. "Yup, sounds better than fine."

His hand stays in my hair but apparently he only needs one to unzip his overall and produce a crinkly little package from wherever. I still pant away the sting in my ass with my face smashed into ungiving metal as I hear him spit away the upper part he just ripped off with his teeth. Then, lube; right onto my crack. Fuck, it's really fucking damn cold, but it's a nice change to the fire ants crawling underneath my skin not too far away from there. Weak consolation though. I haven't been fucked in months. That one's gonna hurt, especially judging by how lovelessly he spreads the lube. Out of nowhere, he slams two of his fingers right in there without any bravado, just bam, right up to the knuckle, thank you sir. Just what I needed. The pain makes my mouth swear and my cock throb. Shit. How am I so _lucky_? Maybe this really is my lucky week. Finally.

More crinkling as soon as his fingers are out. I feel bare, _am_ bare; arch my back deeper like the shameless slut he must presume I am. The heel of his hand bumps against my lower back when he rolls the condom onto his dick. "God, yes, please." I have no problem with begging from strangers. I don't care what they think of me, what stories they're gonna tell their friends - as long as it gets me what I want, I can be anything for those people. I want a hard fuck, and I want it _now_. Since our janitor can provide it, and since he seems to be a massive dick (personality-wise, at least; well see about the other one), he'll get me begging and licking his shoes if that just makes him- "MOTHER _FUCKER_!"

His other hand grabs my mouth and screws it closed; I still wail into the oily meat of his palm. Nothing ripped, not with this amount of lube, but SHIT, he just rammed it in like nothing. And with "nothing" I mean "a helluva fucking lot of pain that I'll have fun with for _days_ ". Tears shoot into my eyes when he starts to move not too many moments later and my survival instincts make me try to wriggle away. All what this earns me is him grinding his hips flat and deep against my ass, drives his dick into me to the base. His dick is just like him - medium in length, unproportioned in girth and undeniably malicious. "I prefer 'Gabe', but nice try. That other one's my middle name."

I can't do much else but hold on and try not to die. The machine and me are being banged loud enough to be heard right up to the corridor upstairs, even if the washing room's door was being closed or maybe even locked. The idea gives me the chills - the good kind. On the one hand of course because it's a really fucking big turn on to have the danger of being caught sitting right in my neck. On the other hand though because the janitor gives just as many flying fucks about it as me. Of course I had to move into the building under the care of the kinkiest sonofabitch of a fucking janitor. Of course.

Not many people dare to fuck like he does. There's simply no holding back at all, no reserve, no mercy. This is about him and _his_ pleasure alone (even though I still hang on to my theory that he knows exactly what makes my dick drool and thus just plays out all the aces he knows to make this _my_ game). With that shitty excuse of a prep, I'm so tight that I can feel every vein and every bump on his dick, fuck, even the damn crinkles on the _condom_. The pain is breathtaking and I could give less of a fuck what it says about me that I still am swinging back against him to get more; more pain, more dick, more nirvana. My dick slaps against my thighs and pelvis and leaves sticky-wet patches where it hits. I doubt I'll come like this, but I'll doubt even more that he'll let me get a hand on myself to take care of that. Which, when I phrase it out like that in my head, in turn pushes me closer to the edge.

Surprisingly, his grip on my jaw softens then. "Be good now and you'll get a treat." Seriously? I don't know if I can make it. It takes all of my mental and physical power to keep my teeth clenched shut without the pressure of his palm. Spit bubbles from the corners of my mouth, snot from my nose, and my cheeks are wet with tears. I am the receiving end of what definitely feels like a hate-fuck, and it _shows_. I must look ridiculous - but as soon as his hand wraps around my dick, I couldn't care less about it. He shushes me like an idiot and jacks me feather-soft with the sandpaper-like skin of his fingers, all the while his cock keeps hammering right into my prostate. The taste of my own blood fills my mouth as I come unreasonably few seconds into the shifted attentions, right against the machine and over our laundry inside of it; on my feet, the ground. Fucking _everywhere_ , just because he doesn't stop fucking me. My nerves could as well be on fire now and every punch into my sore ass makes me want to scream and keep on coming. One of those things I do. The other is held back thanks to my punctured lip.

Just like everything he does, he comes without much ceremony. Fast final spurt; three, four, five slow grinds - done. He pulls out and the instance he lets go of my hair, I crumble down against the washing machine. With my knees in my own come, I catch my breath while my head leans against the soiled metal. I manage a "fuck" and sound just about as wrecked as I feel like.

I hear him make a breathless laugh. "Just a wild guess: You're not exactly majoring in philosophy, are you."

"Not exactly," I pant.

Sound of something hitting the bin, bin circling, bin coming back to a solid stand on the ground. "That other kid your brother?"

I blink, turn to face him. "What…?"

"Bigfoot." Gabe raises his arm all the way it will go to gesture a tall height. "Moppy hair. At the back of your feet like some pedigree poodle."

My brain is still too foggy from my orgasm, so I am able to shove that terrible word as far away as it will go. "Uh, yeah."

"Ah, I thought so." Again, he wipes his hands on his thighs, zips up his overall. He looks completely refreshed. Asshole. "I've been wondering for a while now. That old man's your daddy, then?"

I wipe my arm across my nose, over my eyes, and get up (fuckkk, bad idea, bad idea, really really fucking bad idea). "You're a stalker o' something?"

"'O' something," Gabe states.

Still panting, I frown. This is not the way I like my hookups to go.

He raises an eyebrow at my shaking knees. "Relax, kid. My job is to take care of this damn building twenty-four seven. _God forbid_ I let my thoughts stretch their legs every once in a while."

My hand grabs for a dirty piece of whatever from the machine's drum that I use to wipe myself dry with. It's tossed right back inside. "Friendly advice: hands off him."

"Oh, I would _never_!" The ass keeps joking and lifts his arms in front of his chest. His play-pretended shocked expression slips back into that sassy eyebrow-lift I start to understand as his standard face. "Except, of course, that 'enthusiasm' of yours runs in the family."

I stare him down some more. Heaving my pants back up my hips reminds me that bending down will not be too much fun for the time being. "Well, it doesn't," I decide. The janitor shrugs his shoulders and then actually does leave to grab the missing tool from his office or whatever. I finish getting our laundry going and am back inside the flat before he returns.

More coffee, a smoke, a secondary shower. I tell Dad "bye" and he replies with "don't mess it up, boy" so I say "you know me" and he just grunts "yeah, exactly, Dean". I shut the door between us and smile to myself with a weird twist to my guts. You used to say that to me too, exactly in this tone. Maybe it was you who picked it up from Dad, not the other way around? It's like a language only spoken in our family, and we're still fluid in it even without you. Life _does_ go on, huh?

There's time to waste between now and the first interview, so I stroll around the blocks, have a look at a shop here or there. As long as I'm moving, I'm alright. It's always been like that, and maybe I _am_ better off working minimal wage jobs instead of going through another torturous episode of studying. I don't know how Sammy does it. Or how you did it. Maybe still doing it. I don't even know if or when you graduated.

It's not such a good day today. Second mess of thoughts about you and it's not even twelve AM. Shit. Not today. I can't have this today.

I text Sammy before I enter the place - "wish me luck". The message is sent but not read. Probably busy. I take a deep breath and get inside. The office is nice and has a cozy, family-like vibe to it. Senior Boss interviews me and breaks into laughter over my bad jokes. I'm offered coffee and a look around the current site they're working on. If I could maybe stick around for a while of trial work? I smile and nod and tell him I have an appointment at five and he says that'll be sufficient. We both know that at this point I'd gotten the job even if I told him no, but since I'm glad for every minute that I don't have to spend in boredom, I really don't mind.

Senior Boss introduces me to Junior Boss who introduces me to the site and the guys. More than "the new guy", I'm "Dean". Everybody shakes hands and after I was being equipped with safety boots and a helmet, I'm good to go. It's a big building we're putting back together and the guys are a great team. They accept me right from the start. This is not my first job in this line of work and I don't need much of an instruction. The guys are cool with it, I'm cool with everything, and it's basically everything I'd want from a job. The pay is alright as well, so Junior Boss and me shake hands once more at around five and I'm signing the papers on the side of the street.

Back home, shower, change of clothes, departure right away after a short but effective raid of the pantry. Dry bread is better than a rumbling stomach. The way to the carpenter's is rather long but I make it in time. I like the smells in here, the dusty air. One of the machines is still going so I walk over there just to find the boss still grinding the last imperfections out of a rather big piece. He's got "workaholic" written all over himself so I drop the buddy-attitude and present myself as an ambitious young man who has had several jobs in the field already. I explain some jobs Sam put into my CV in depth and he looks contended with it. There is no problem with my request to work in the afternoons. We shake hands and I put my name under the second job contract for today. It's a really really damn good week.

On my way back and in the beginning nightfall, happiness takes over and has me feeling like dancing. I have a job. Two! _Two_ jobs! There will be money. I will be able to pay for food, for rent, for Baby's fuel and taxes. Dad will get his meds, Sammy will get his books, I will get my smokes. Sammy will get more sleep and I will get less thinking-time. Everything's good. It's great!

I go from sauntering to skipping steps to grooving shoulders and arms. My head nods in a silent rhythm and my cig dances between fingers and mouth. I smile because I can. Because I feel like it. Even without you. I can do it.

I can do it.

When Sam's shift is over at around midnight, his face almost falls off at the sight of me right in front of the building. It just makes me laugh. "What are you doing here?" I press a plastic bag containing still warm Chinese takeout into his stupidly long arms. He stares down on it, then back to me. Confusion breaks into the tiniest smile. "You did it?" I don't have to answer - I just grin. "You did it!" He throws his arms around me and his coworkers almost stumble over their own feet at the sight. I hug him back as good as I can and laugh into his shirt's collar.

The kid digs through what I got him while I tell him about my victories on the job market. He barely gets out a single word between the mouthfuls of rice and bamboo sprouts but the way he gives in to his hunger tells me enough - he's just as relieved about the turn of events as I am. His damn eyes even sparkle a little bit whenever he looks up to see me speak, halfway hunched over his knees where he balances the box. He looks so young when he's like that. Full of hope and love and adoration. My good boy.

"I'll start tomorrow," I tell him, lick my lips. He nods and smiles, gets up to discard the empty bag and box into the next best trash bin. Of course, I'm right behind him. Of course, when he turns back to me, my mouth is right there and looks for the hidden tastes underneath glutamate and chili. It's cute that he still startles, still plays these games. His hands push around my sides though, under my shirt and over my bare skin. I tug him close by his parka. I've been waiting for this for a good hour now.

He's warm. He's warm and in love with me and always there for me. He's so much more than I deserve, and I know it, oh, I know it. "Dean, I've... I've gotta get up in six hours..."

"But I wanna _celebrate_!" I sound like a damn kid because he lets me, because he tickles that out of me. I nip at his lip because it's pouty and tired and needs more blood. He produces that wonderfully high sound at the back of his throat that makes me want to tie him up to our bed and let neither of us leave the room ever again. "Please, baby, jus' a little. I promise we'll get you into bed soon, alright?" Of course we both know the answer before he says it out loud.

Once I get enough money together, we'll be able to take Baby out for a ride out of town every now and then. Just a little daytrip to somewhere, nothing big. Sometimes I miss those days on the road when we just left Lawrence behind us, the hours we snuck away from Dad and into deserted parts of forests or beaches or valleys or shitty little towns, just the two of us and maybe a towel or a blanket and nothing else. For now, those dark alleys and corners I fear during the daytime have to suffice. Poor baby's cheeks are glowing red and he's chewing on his lip as if this was the first time he'd let me fuck him in a sleazy place like this, as if he was such a pure little thing that has to be _coaxed_ into a situation like this.

But this is Samuel Wesson - and Samuel Wesson is just as far from innocent as I am. Probably.

His back hits the wall as if he didn't see my push coming, has his breath hitched and his dick hard as if he hadn't been touched in weeks. If it was me who made him become like this, then God help me, I created a damn miracle. We move deeper into the shadows, until I can barely see my hands on him. He unbuckles my belt and I call him "slut", which doesn't even make him flinch anymore. I laugh and bite his neck; he presents it for me and peels the clothes from my dick. Some moment I didn't pay attention he must have retrieved the lube from his backpack (like a damn boy scout) because his hand on me is slicking me up. Huh. He really wants this to be quick. He should know better.

With his face against the wall now, he can live it all out, the whole damn nine. He pulls his shoulders up high to his ears and arches his back like a damn porn star. My porn star. There's praise for that into his ear while I undo his jeans, yank them down together with the boxer briefs underneath. He shivers, bends lower. His burning skin is my sanctuary in this darkness. I run my hand over his ass; one cheek for each palm. I knead and groan and he holds his breath in anticipation for that first blow, but I won't deliver. Not today. Not here.

No matter the position, I love watching Sam melt right in front of me when I start entering him. The first few inches have him sink in on himself after a short seizing and yeah, they're heavenly for me as well, but whatever happens to Sam in those moments will probably forever be a mystery to me. I've never ever met anyone who loves getting their ass fucked as much as this kid does (and damn, have I met some _freaks_ ), especially with little to no prep at all. Just like that, I can get him to slip into that deep happy place he holds inside of him somewhere, where I can only reach him with my dick buried balls deep. I don't exactly like to hurt him, but damn, it gets him going like nothing else, like it actually feels _good_.

I start slow and he's already completely into it, shaking knees and slipping hands 'n all. He's all soft and trusting while mumbling little nothings against the bricks and his forearms he leans his head against now. I praise him for how good he feels, how nice and tight and isn't this here much better than lying in a boring bed? "Yeah, yeah, please, oh yeah," he whimpers his response.

I want to have this forever. Him and me and nothing else. I don't care that it's dark, that it's cold, that I'm still hurting all over from the janitor incident and that half shift on the construction site. We'll both have to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow and if we had any sanity left in our heads, we would be anywhere but here with our damn pants around our ankles. But it's all I need really, isn't it? No food, no water, no smokes, no drinks, no pills, no you. You left. You left. I don't need you. I don't.

My ass is killing me, especially on those first slow grinds, but the pain keeps me in the here and now with Sam and away from you, so that's maybe a good thing after all. I pant, blink against the sensations that crash into me from every angle. I concentrate on Sam's voice, on his twiggy hips in my hands (so much different from yours, ours), because I want to fuck _him_ tonight, not _you_ ; he deserves this and I want it, too.

The streets are even colder in our post-orgasmic states but Sammy's cheeks are still burning. We hold hand in his parka's pocket. Once we're in our bed, we kiss for a long time instead of falling asleep right away. He still tastes like takeout underneath the peppermint and maybe I love that.

Like I promised, Dad gets a new sofa. His sleep immediately increases for several hours and he's way more talkative once he's up. He even asks me to take him out for a walk which I of course happily agree to. I'm a little exhausted from those about one hundred hours of work, but it's worth it, it's all worth it. We get him a coffee and a newspaper and take a seat in the nearby park. There's a tiny little fight about whether we read the sport section or not, but Dad eventually gives in with a grunt.

It's probably a bad thing to say... but his condition also has its good sides. He doesn't get himself into shady jobs, doesn't drink anymore (both of them went dry together with me, and I still haven't come up with a way to thank them for it), only looks but _isn't_ as grumpy anymore like he used to be. If I ever said it out loud I'd be a dead man, but Dad now's not much more but a very shady looking teddy bear. I mean, he always kinda was, but he's softening more and more. Maybe you'd even like him like he is now and you'd two could get along. Maybe it should scare me, maybe this is a development I should be more sceptic about... but, to be honest? I don't. I just wanna be happy for a while. Just a little while. Just a little piece of something that's finally _not_ a complete fuck-up for a change; a little piece of happiness for our tiny family. I think we deserve it. _I_ deserve it.

The jobs are nice. I'm positive I'll be able to keep them for a while. Yeah, that's a big thing to say after these past (bad) years, but I have a real good feeling recently. I didn't relapse for _months_ (still can't believe it) and it's really actually fun to work with those guys. And, of course, I have my two biggest motivations sitting at the dinner table with me, eyes big and mouths watering as I fill their plates. I do it for them, gotta do it for them. They _need_ me - Sammy is still a kid and Dad's one wrung out old man. I gotta be strong for them.

After turning Sam's mouth cherry-sweet with candy, I feed it my dick all the way down, just like he likes it; until he's gagging and turning fire red from the lack of oxygen. My thumbs drag over his bulging throat with enough pressure to feel myself in there. His fingers are feathers on my hips; he'd stop me if it wasn't exactly what he wanted, _if_. He's never been complaining, not even after that shit I pulled in two thousand sixteen. When I'm honest, that makes me angry, actually. Sam's a great guy, clever and polite and charming and no coward at all. Nobody can tell me that he wanted that back then, but still - not a single word. I was cruel back then, even though half of it wasn't even me but the pills inside of my system, my brain; I didn't even care what he wanted. I try not to think of it. That's over and behind us now.

Back from Sarah's, we enter our building to the sight of Gabe mopping the floor. I contemplate not moving a muscle for him but the eye contact forces a "hey" out of me.

He takes a deep bow and gestures along the corridor. "M'ladies."

An annoyed grunt from me and somehow offended silence from Sammy. We pass him and in contrast to Sam, I don't turn around to get a better look at the guy. We "met" a few times (was it two or three?) since the first encounter but I still haven't figured him out.

"I didn't know we had _two_ janitors," baby boy shrugs on the staircase.

I raise my eyebrow. "Two?"

"Yeah. There's another one. He's usually here at night when I come home from work. Dark hair, deep voice..."

I smirk. "You've been checkin' him out?"

"What? _No_!" He stares down at me as if I made one of my less tasteful jokes. "No. I just. He's a nice guy. We talk a little every now an' then."

"... You _talk_?"

He rolls his eyes before he turns away from me to continue climbing the stairs. "Yeah, Dean, _talk_. You know, that _other_ thing you can do with people."

Sometimes I wonder why he never calls me out on sleeping around. Probably because he knows very well that he won't get what he'd be asking for anyway. I'm a free man in a free country and we're all grown-ups. Sam can leave whenever he wants and I wouldn't stop him. He could find someone better than me around every damn corner of this town, hell, even in its gutters. I wouldn't blame him.

Dad welcomes us back home with fresh coffee and the two nerds emerge themselves in their favorite game of all time. I sit and watch, drink, smoke. They don't talk much but I think I've got the rules more or less figured out at this point. I ain't dumb, you know? I just don't wanna play this stupid game, that's all. It's their thing, not mine. And I'd probably never forgive myself for losing against either of those brats.

Today, something is a little strange. Sam loses game after game and his mistakes become more and more offhand. At one point he's so tense I can see the white of his knuckles where he presses them around his chin. I say nothing.

At the end of game three, I offer more coffee.

Sam exhales sharply through his nose and answers, "I, uh. I need to tell you something, Dean."

I concentrate very hard on not rolling my eyes. "You don't say."

"It's- Just listen, okay? Just sit down and listen for a moment."

"... I'm _already_ sitting."

"Y-yeah, jus- Just _stay_ , okay?" He avoids my eyes, runs his fingers through his hair. His breath comes sharp and thin. Dad is unmoved. "This. This is hard. Fuck. Sorry."

"Jus' let it all out." I can't imagine anything Sammy could have done that could upset me, so I pet his back, try a smile. Humor is always good, especially when I have no freaking clue what is happening. He's probably overreacting. He tends to do that a lot. Hormones and all. (Like a damn chick, I swear to God.)

His hands drop from his face, fucking _finally_. My hand is still on his back, rubs in generous circles. I feel him shake underneath my palm, his heartbeat through his thin torso. I want to laugh and tell him "oh come _on,_ baby boy" - but then his eyes meet mine.

My smile freezes.

"I- I'm so sorry. Please don't be mad. Please don't."

"I won't," I lie. "C'mon, spit it out."

A shaky breath where I don't take any. "Jensen and me, we... we were talking."

Bam - and I'm done for. That name alone is able to knock every air out of my sails. I can't believe he puts it out there just like that, as if he didn't know- Wait a second. What? What did he just say?

"They're getting married," Sam adds and almost swallows his tongue.

I take a second, two.

I shake my head, laugh. "What? Who?"

No. No no no no no no.

Sam's eyes still look into mine. I can't feel my hand on his back. "You know who," he croaks.

I gotta get out of here.

I hear the chair scrape over the floor, feel a hand on my arm, but I gotta get out, I gotta go even though I don't know _where_ to go, but it's gotta be "away", away from here. Sweat, giving knees, blur shadows in front of me, but I gotta get away. I push them off, through the door, down the stairs, just away, away, away.

I don't know for how long I run, don't know the direction. The next clear memory I have is standing at the edge of that bridge, giant masses of water underneath me, endless sky above me, traffic and people and life buzzing all around. I pant, feel my sweat run into my eyes, down my skin where my clothes are too loose or aren't sticking to it yet. The railing is ice cold in my grip; I'm holding on to it for dear life. Feeling returns to my body - the burn of exhaustion, of my set-on-fire lungs, of cramping muscles. My vision gets clearer and I am afraid to see, to feel, to think. I don't want to. I can't bear it. I can't do it. I can't.

For a long, long moment, I consider jumping. Just ending it, just like that. If the impact of the fall doesn't rip me apart on top of that water surface and let me bleed out, maybe I'll hit a pillar, maybe I'll freeze to death, maybe I'll dip deep enough to drown.

To be honest, I don't know why I don't go through with it. I see you in front of my eyes, your bratty little smile when we didn't get caught for setting the neighbors' trash bins on fire, hear your "it's nothing big, really" when you handed me that necklace wrapped in old newspaper. I feel your kiss and I feel your skin and I taste your laughter - and I just can't bring myself to do it.

My knees give in eventually but my hand remains on that railing; I've gotta hold on to something. Unaltered, I pant, stare into the water. There was that little lake where Dad hid us from the cops in Michigan, remember, Jen? We collected snails there that one summer. I named each and every one after you and you thought it was for making fun of you. Oh man. I cried so so hard when they died, all of them. Poor things.

A young couple kneels down next to me and ask me if I'm okay. I try to laugh, but I can't. I have no idea how I look but I know I don't even _look_ okay. They ask me where I live, if I need help. I say "nowhere" and "no thank you, I'll be alright". The girl touches my forearm and I realize I'm in my t-shirt. Her gloves are bizarrely fluffy, like a kitten. Oh God. Do you remember the kittens, Jen?

They get me on my legs somehow, buy me a coffee. I can't taste it, don't feel its warmth pooling in my stomach. It's like rehab all over, cold turkey, bam, just like that. I could get ecstasy out of my system but it ain't that easy with _you_ , is it? You're in more places than my liver or my brain. It's not that simple. It never was simple with us. You.

The taxi driver gets a handful of bills and I get concerned eyes and a last pat on my shoulder. "Take him to the hospital," they tell him, but I correct it to about five blocks from where we live. I get off, wander through the park. There's a playground which naturally is deserted at these temperatures. I sit down on the slide, watch the trees groan in the wind and how my breath clouds in front of me. We never liked playgrounds, Jen, did we? Too many other kids. Too many waiting moms. We preferred forests, riversides. We'd play for hours, just us, nobody else, no other soul for miles and miles. There was nothing in the world for me but you.

My jacket finds my shoulders, my back. I don't even flinch. "You're worse than a _dog_ ," I tell him. My throat feels like it's been carved out with razor blades.

Sam doesn't reply, just wraps my jacket closer around me, tries to rub circulation back into my limbs. His body is a long line against my side.

"When'd he tell you?"

"Three weeks ago."

"Hm." I nod, don't duck away from the unwanted touches. "When? Since when'd you two started talking, Sam?"

A short pause. I don't even know why I'm asking. I won't like the answer anyway. "Since forever," Sam mutters. "Years."

Breathing hurts. I can feel my heartbeat, every single one, how they punch through my body, make my blood move. It's probably as thick as molasses.

"I wanted to tell you... I really did..."

I smile. "Yeah, but you di'n't."

"There was no way I could've told you, Dean! You were in no state to, to-"

"Do I look like I'm in 'a state' _now_?!"

"Please don't be mad. I- I had to do it... I had to protect you."

"Oh yeah? Yeah, you know what, Sam? Fuck you." His hands won't get lost when I try to shrug them off, but standing up and ripping myself under and away does the trick. My arms slip into the sleeves. I could shove my hands into the pockets to make them unfreeze, but the fists are too big and numb to get them anywhere.

I glare up at him, six feet two of puppy eyes and misery and little boy and all it makes me want to do is break that face until its parts and pieces are splattered all over that damn slide.

I spit in front of his feet. " _Fuck you_."

He doesn't follow me and I'm both glad and disappointed about it. Some part of me wants to throw punches and insults while another craves his company. I ignore both.

I trusted him. I trusted him, really really _trusted_ him - _and this is what I get_. I can't believe this shit. He talked to you. For years. Years, he said! Probably from the very beginning, right from the moment you left Lawrence. Maybe you even met him under the tree house with me still sleeping upstairs, and then he let you go, maybe even _told_ _you_ _to_ , that little piece of shit. Yeah, I can see that.

You think you know someone, you know, Jen? I thought... Yeah. Well. Maybe I should've known, shouldn't I? It never goes the way I want it to go, never works out for good old Dean Winchester. It just doesn't.

 _He betrayed me_. I keep repeating the words inside of my head. _Betrayed_ me. Betrayed _me_. _Sam_ betrayed me.

Him. Out of all people, him. Him. The only person that I thought maybe could...

Dad doesn't move a muscle when I come home and slump down next to him on the sofa. He's watching a documentary about Nine Eleven. I cross my arms in front of my chest, stare right ahead. "Did you know?"

He snorts.

"Great," I say.

By the time Sam returns, I still haven't moved an inch, still have my arms wrapped tight around me, am still wearing my sweat-soaked clothes, jacket and shoes. My personal straitjacket. I'm thinking about asking Dad to tie me to the heater or something. "I'll sleep HERE now," I bark as soon as the door creaks open, "and if I were you, I wouldn't even TRY to come close to me."

I hear the door stop in its movement, then the pointedly quiet noises of Sam dropping his parka, his shoes. I don't turn around, don't even want to know he's here. He fixes himself a cup of tea and closes the bedroom door behind him.

The Twin Towers fall. I don't blink against the smoke, the fire. I see little stick figures that must have been people at that time. "How'd he find me?"

"Turned on your phone's GPS."

I hiss my exhale, let my mouth ripple. "Invasion of privacy. _Nice_." I turn around to the damn door. "HOPE YOU ENJOYED THE PICTURES, YOU SONOFABITCH!!"

I face the TV again and we let the documentary pass us by, another. Dad and I go to sleep but I don't close my eyes for as much as five consecutive minutes. When I do, you're there - and he's with you. That scum, that _demon_ who stole you away from me. I grit my teeth until it hurts, until the sounds make my bones rattle. I stare at Dad's back, the ceiling, the sofa's armrest.

Maybe if I hadn't been on that handful of points on that chilly September day these long years ago, I would've had the brains to take care of him first before coming to get you. 

It takes all I've got not to give in, every freaking ounce of power. I don't do it for _them_ , ha, no; fuck _them_. It's for me, me alone, keeps me from sinking back into memories and fantasies and you. I sweat like a motherfucker and people jump out of my way when I walk the streets but I don't care. I go to work, do my duty, punch hours after hours. I eat because I need to; drink, piss, shit. Nothing more, nothing less. Just don't give in. Don't let your eyes drift to that crate of beer, don't take the long route home. Say "good morning" and "thank you" and "see you tomorrow", shake a hand, drop a smile, laugh along.

I meet the janitor in the hallway, gesture him into his office and dare him to drop the lube but use a condom instead. It takes a few provocations but I get him to do it anyway. He's a damn sadist and should know better than feeling the need to convince me otherwise. When he goes rough, I tell him "rougher". I bleed, badly, and it hurts, badly. I bite through the insides of my cheeks and he has to change condoms because they rip, twice. I couldn't care less. If I get AIDS or whatever, just let it get me; I don't care. I _want_ it to hurt, _want_ it to chew me to slobber, to spit me out, to step on me and grind me under its heel.

Hurt me, please, _fuck_ ; make it hurt. Make me forget, make me numb and cold, turn me insane with agony until I can't even scream anymore. I want it. I welcome it. _Please_.

He finishes, leaves me lying on the desk face-down. I can barely breathe.

Just kill me. Kill me, please.

"I won't do that again," he says. He sounds disgusted. Yeah, I can relate. I'm sick of myself as well. After a while, he adds, "You need help, kid."

I sob laughter. Maybe I do. Yeah, maybe I really really do.

Unfortunately, I doubt that help like that exists.


	2. Chapter 2

"It can't go on like this."

I look up from my newspaper. Wow. Looks like someone finally grew some balls.

Sam tries to look into my eyes but fails since I give off vibes dangerous enough to scare a Pitbull away. "I know that what... what I did was wrong. I wanted to tell you since forever. Please try to understand me."

"Oh kiddo, I think I understand quite well."

"No." Oh. A new word. It can learn. "No, you- you're not even _trying_ to understand! You were _sick_ , Dean! You barely were yourself at that time; how could I have told you about this?!"

"Four years," I say, put the newspaper down, "Four years, and you didn't think that I'd maybe, eventually, deserve to get that little update? _Maybe_?!"

His eyes are wet. There is no trace of a dimple. "... It would have _killed_ you, Dean."

"No." I laugh, throw my head back. "No, nonono, uh-uh, boy, no - you know what's killing me? Being LIED to. By the people I thought I could TRUST. YOU." I point my finger, see the shock in those eyes. "YOU'RE killing me."

He's crumbling and I can see all of it. Yes, exactly. Fall apart. Fuck off. I don't care. We've been here, maybe not exactly this far, but close. Leave. Leave me. Just like they all did. Just get it over with. I know you want to.

He can barely contain his face. His lips are trembling, stupid and open. He's got his hands in his lap where I can't see them. "You have no idea," he croaks.

"Yeah, no, I haven't," I sneer. And whose fault is that, huh?

"He wants to see you, Dean."

Emergency brakes.

"He misses you. Has always missed you, all the time, ever since the day he left. Every time we talk on the phone, he asks me how you're doing, how it's going."

"Why are you- What-"

"I told him about your progress, how great you're doing, and he's so proud of you. He wants you to... I- I told him, it's too much, you aren't ready, but... But he still hopes that-"

Wait, too fast, too much, I-

"That you can come. To their wedding."

I can't hear the "that you can forgive him" anymore, not really. I see the floor, the ceiling, everything in between, as if it'd been sucked into a wormhole, spinning, spinning until I don't know where I am, until I feel pressure against my knees and hands and cheek and maybe I'm face-down on the floor. Like a hammer coming down, my heart rams back into life, pounds inside of my chest as if it wanted to burst out. My vision clears and I see the door, gotta get to that door, gotta leave, vanish, escape from whatever there is that I can't take in this moment, this unbearable pain and weight and I scramble over the floor on all fours but something holds me back, smashes me down again. I scream and kick and flail but the hold is tight and heavy and why can't I just get away, why won't you let me GET AWAY?!

My windpipe gets blocked. The sensation of blood being bottled up in my skull is strangely vibrant. The heat, the iron - I gasp, grab that arm. It's an _arm_. Whose-

Sam's. It's Sam's.

Sam has me in a choke-hold, flat on the ground with his entire maybe one-twenty pounds on my two hundred and I cannot move a single fucking inch.

When my vision starts to dance in stroboscopic rhythms, I finally regain my hearing. A steady chant of "I've got you" reaches my left ear, his mouth barely an inch apart from it. His breath is hot, steady. His heart hammers against my back.

I make a strange sound somewhere in my throat.

The pressure lifts - and I bolt forward.

My face slams on the floor, his hand like a screw clamp on top of it, pressing down, down. My arm is getting twisted inwards until I howl and why can't I get out of this, when did he, how did he-

"You'll stay, you'll stay here, I won't let you go, not again, Dean, not again."

I have no idea how long it goes on. Every time I think he's got to give in now, I try again, but he just tightens his hold or rearranges us into an even more painful mess. If I move just the tiniest bit now, my shoulder will dislocate. I pant. This shouldn't be possible. I don't _want_ this to be possible.

I want to go. I want to go _now_. I don't want to stay here, with him, _him_ who knows so much more about you than I do, who knows that you-

My breathing stops.

You're getting married. He told me already but only now I understand.

There's nothing but this word. Then, an image. You. You and him.

You love _him_. You chose _him_.

I see the bridge again, the water. If only I would have jumped.

Suddenly I'm on my back, all limbs spread away from my middle where Sam straddles me and punches my face, my chest. I stare, see his lips move. What is he _saying_?

Bw... Bre... Breathe...?

My inhale makes my chest expands so wide that it hurts - _hurts_.

Sensation. No.

"Keep breathing, keep BREATHING, Dean!!"

No, I don't want to, no, no, just let me die, just let me GO!!

He kisses me open-mouthed, forces his breath into my lungs. I want to struggle but I can't move, can't even lift a finger.

"No, I ain't letting you," he sobs, now kisses me for real. Again, he didn't eat. I can taste it. It annoys me. He does that sometimes and I don't know why. It makes me angry. People have to _eat_ , for God's sake.

Sam collapses on top of me. It's my chance, I think. I could run now. His arms are still around me but they are twigs; he straddles me but I could swing him up and away with my legs; I...

I can't move.

I breathe, I can't move - and the pain gets to me.

You're carving me out. Always have, haven't you.

I'm hollow. Nothing but a set of brittle bones, a house of cards. I can feel it now. Yeah, I feel it.

It's too much. I can't do it.

"We're gonna work it out. Please, Dean, please; we'll- I'll take care of you. I've got you. I ain't leaving you."

But what if I want you to?

"No," he just says. _No_. Ha.

It's funny how life goes sometimes.

When I come to, the first thing I realize is... You've gotta be _kidding_ me. I pull on my arms, but the knots are secure. I find him at the foot of the bed, his hands in his lap. He just looks at me, tired and weak. I try my legs - but nah. There, too. "Seriously?" I croak.

"Yes," he just says.

My head falls back into the pillow with a laugh. I look around, but there's nothing I could use to get free. Yet. I sneer at him. "Can't keep me here forever, you know."

"Long enough to get some sense back into you."

"Wow. _Wow_. So I'm insane now? Is that it? Psychopath show?"

He doesn't blink. "More like suicide watch."

"What?! Oh COME ON!" Laughing hurts. I feel like I've been run over by a truck. "Come on, Sammy. You know me. It ain't like that. I wouldn't do somethin' stupid like that."

A pause. He is unreadable. Again, I yank on my bound wrists. Fuck this bed with its damn bedposts. "Are you hungry?" he asks.

"What, for, like, human meat? No; thank you, Clariccccce," I hiss.

"Nothing? Water? Bathroom?"

I squint across the bed. "You _are_ serious."

A soft nod.

I don't believe this. I stare at the ceiling. If I would have known... ah, who am I kidding. I don't know what I would have done, even if I knew Sam would sink this low to keep me around. I don't even really know what I want right now. Am I angry? Yeah. Am I tired? Yeah. Am I a miserable piece of shit? Yeah. But, if I could choose right now - would I jump?

I don't know. I think of you, and I see you smiling. He's smiling, too; and you guys are gonna marry each other, the whole tam-tam, church and fancy suits and yeah, you'd love that.

And you miss me. He says you miss me. Is that true, Jen? After everything I did? Are you sure about that? Right now I'm tied to my own bed because my so-called "boyfriend" doesn't trust me about something as simple as staying alive on my own.

You shouldn't miss me, Jen. I'm not ready for it.

"Get some rest. We're in the living room if you need anything."

"... He's back from the doc?"

"Yeah."

"... What'd you tell him?"

He sighs, rolls his eyes. He looks older than nineteen, Jen. He could be our age and it's _me_ who made him grow up too fast like that. "You know John. He doesn't need to be told anything."

The door stays open a tiny notch and I'm alone.

Sleep gets me every now and then, sometimes longer, sometimes shorter. I relive it all: you, Jay, Sam, the drugs, the tree house, your voice, Sam's graduation, our departure from Jay's, the shove, my busted knuckles, our loose milk teeth. You're everywhere, even in the deepest pits where I know exactly you _weren't_ with me, not really; but always in my head, my heart. And you say you _miss_ me? After throwing all this away, after making me hurt so bad?

You haven't seen me. You don't know what I'm capable of. You know barely half of what I did, all the ugly thoughts that spin and spin and spin and make me both sick and excited. I wonder what Sam told you, if he prettified the stories and if he at only a single point of it all mentioned what I did to _him_ in all this. He probably didn't. You wouldn't say you missed me if you knew what I put him through. You'd hate me. You'd hate me just like I hate myself, how Sam should hate me if he had any sense in him.

Someone brings me water through a straw and I gulp it down. I don't care which one of them it is; doesn't matter. I think of Dad, how pathetic he must think his son is, and I laugh. It sounds weak, feeble. I get a few spoons of soup until I decline it.

More sleep. More dreams. Your skin. Your eyes. I smell your hair. You could lie right beside me and I...

I turn my head.

It's Sam's. Sam is right next to me. It's _Sam's_ _hair_ I smell.

I thought it was yours. I genuinely, really thought it was _yours_. But it's Sam's. It's Sam's.

I forgot what your hair smells like.

My eyes are pinned to the curtains but I don't see them. Sam's body is wrapped around mine. It's dark, maybe deep in the night. I don't know.

I don't know, Jen. I don't know.

What is happening with me?

I miss you. I miss you so much.

"Bathroom," I mutter.

Sam is very careful when he loosens my bonds but to both our surprises, I don't feel like fighting at all. I'm just weak and tired and my bladder is about to explode, so, yeah. Just get it over with.

He has to support me, almost carries me. It feels weird to have all that weight attached to me and I'm starting to get dizzy - before I know it, I'm head-first in the toilet bowl and heave up every last bit that my stomach strangely enough still contained. Sam sits me down on it when I stop, pulls my shorts down so I can relieve myself. He holds my upper body upright, dabs my mouth with a cold towel.

When he wipes my ass and dick clean for me I try to protest but my mouth won't work. "It's okay," he tells me nevertheless, calm and quiet and fifteen years old again like when he had to do this for me for the first time.

Back in bed he doesn't restrain me, just lies me down, pulls the covers over me. I can't really see anything but I know he's there, right beside me. He's holding my hand, strokes my forehead, my hair.

"I'm here," he says. "I'm here."

I hate myself.

Warmth. Sunlight. Smell of coffee.

I blink at the ceiling.

Now, I could leave. I could gather my strength and... Or _could_ I? Do I even want to? I don't know. I don't know, Jen, I don't know.

Somehow, I get up. My knees wobble beneath me but I do make it to the kitchenette. Dad looks up at me from his journal and Sam turns around from where he's fixing the coffee.

I don't know what to say. What _is_ there to say? I should be at work. Sam should be at school. Oh God. We-

"Sit with us," Dad offers.

I do. I receive a cup, stare into it. After a while of silence, I hear my voice say, "Are you guys druggin' me?"

"No," Dad answers.

I nod. I trust Dad. Dad doesn't lie.

"Drink, Dean. It'll do you good."

I do. It does.

They mutter stuff like "we'll take it slow" and "don't worry". I wonder how much they believe in their own words. Sound pretty silly to me, to be honest with you.

Time passes and passes and I can barely hold my head up. I don't know what happened with me but I'm beat. Is this my rehab from you? I don't want to be cured from you.

I'd rather die. You hear me?

"How'd you do it?"

Sam looks up from his book. "Hm?"

My head is propped up against the sofa's backrest. I muster him from across the room. "Fuckin' Hulk Hogan'ed me. Tied me up. You're, what?, an empty jug of milk o' somethin'."

He turns the page, shrugs. "I took classes."

"Classes?"

"At college."

"Classes on how to superhero the fuck out of someone?"

"You know Krav Maga," Sam says, "It shouldn't be news to you that with the right leverage, weight and not even muscle strength is of importance."

I snort. "Congrats on kickin' my ass then."

"You make it sound like it's something to be proud of."

"Yeah, well. Kudos to you."

His eyes are pinned to his book. "I didn't enjoy it," he murmurs.

I watch him read. He's so thin. He's gotta _eat_. "But yet you did it."

"'Cause I _had to_ ," Sam says.

We don't say anything for a while. He reads, I watch him read, he breathes, I breathe. Dad said he'd take over my shifts as long as I'm "like this". I told him "no" but he's worse than a donkey. Sam said Dad promised him faithfully that he won't overdo it. How is that even possible, just taking over my work? But I guess it's Dad. Dad can do pretty much everything.

I prepare to get to my feet. "I'm hungry. Lemme fix somethin' nice for us."

Sam jolts in his seat. " _No_."

"What, 'no'?" I hold on to the sofa, glare over to him.

Sam's knuckles are white where he's holding on to his book. "You're not coming close to no sharp objects for the time being, Dean."

"What?! Oh come ON-"

"I won't discuss this with you."

"Well - I guess we'll be starvin' then!?"

"You could teach me, you know."

"What, _cooking_?"

"Yeah. Sure. I mean, why not?"

I want to throw my hands in the air and ruffle my hair but then I'd land straight on my ass. "'Why not', 'why not'?? It's like teaching a damn PIG how to FLY, Sam!!"

He glares back. Is that a pout? A fucking POUT? "It's this pig or nothin'," he states.

I fucking teach him how to cut fucking onions, how to fucking sauté them, when to add the damn oil. Sam boils way too much water for the pasta and looks very doubtful when I tell him that yeah, one teaspoon of salt really is all it needs. We end up with a slightly overspiced tomato sauce because the idiot couldn't hold on to the pepper grinder with his useless, stupid fingers.

"This ain't too bad," I tell him.

He blushes over his steaming serving.

My belly is being rubbed as if I was a fat, old dog. Which I maybe am. I feel like one, to be honest. Thank God I got the new sofa.

I run my fingers over his distended stomach. It's almost freakish how much he bloats. "You eat way too little," I tell him for the hundredth time.

He kisses my head and hums a sleepy "mh-mh" into my hair.

"... Shouldn't you be at school?" I ask him.

"Pfff. Why do you think I study this much?" He's warm against me, bones and muscle and soft-washed cotton. "I'm way ahead of the others. It's not like it's _hard_."

His heartbeat is steady and calm. We used to lay like this a lot, him and me, when I was at my worst, when I could do nothing else but lie down and hope not to die. He would always be there, stroke my hair, tell me stuff about the stars and the milky way and how metal is formed and so much other shit I don't even remember, can't even name - but he's always been there. Just his voice, his hands, his heartbeat. He'd be there for me with those things when nothing else was... nobody else.

"You prepared for this? For this to happen, I mean?" I mutter.

His thumb catches on my navel. He swipes it over it in tiny, mindless circles. "I prepared for being there for you," he tells me.

"With martial arts and studying ahead?"

His chuckle is warm against my ear. "You've kinda got special needs."

Outside, the traffic rushes and rushes. I wonder what you are doing right now. Maybe you're lying like this with him and think of me. I picture the sparkle in your eyes at your first proposal to get it on with the old man, the horror in them when I confronted you on your school yard.

Everything would be so much easier if my mind screamed "I just want you to be happy" instead of "I just want you to be happy with _me_ ".

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

I slip into my jacket, give Sam The Raised Eyebrow™. "It's been a _week_ , Sam."

"Four days!" he insists. He could be a puppy. He _is_ a puppy. "John!"

Dad looks up from his journal and we make eye contact. "Do you feel ready?" he asks.

"Yessir," I answer.

"Alright." Ah, I love my Dad and his pragmatism. "Do something stupid and I'll be sure to make you regret it." Ah. Yes.

I smile. Smiling works again since yesterday. If I can smile, I can go out there and continue living. "You guys worry waaay too much about me."

Sam blocks my way through the door with his arms crossed in front of him. He's as scrawny as ever but I like to tell myself that I got enough food in him in the last couple days that it starts showing. "I don't know," he mutters.

My smile broadens. I don't deserve this kid, Jen. If you could see him. Oh God. "I promise I'll be good, sweetheart." I kiss him on the mouth.

When we part, his eyes are so wide they almost pop out of his skull. I am confused for a few fragments of a second before I realize that - oh - we never did that in front of Dad.

"I'll be goin'," I tell Sam. Oh. Oh. Oh wow. "Don't wait up on me."

"Y-yeah, okay, uh. Yeah."

I leave them, sign in for work, do my shit, eat, smoke, don't think of you. I spend my lunch break going through the depths my phone. There are pictures of bodies I don't recognize, piles and piles of 'em. Tits, dicks, pussies, asses; fucked open or on display. Yours and Sam's are peppered in between here and there and I stay more on Sam's than I stay on yours.

He practically was a baby when we hit him up, huh. Little fat around his cheeks against bony shoulders and chicken chest that are the exact same today, just wider, taller. I find some shots which I don't remember, underexposed and blurry. The file info says they're from two thousand seventeen; shortly before I...

I turn the display off, shove the phone back into my jeans. It's probably not a good time to "dwell" in those memories. It's not like I could change anything about what I did anyway.

I'm not proud of what I did, who I was, Hell no. But I had my reasons. I had to cope somehow, hadn't I? For what I know, it could have gone worse. I knew where Dad had his guns. I could have caused way more damage than just on my own body. If it wasn't for the drugs, maybe I'd have a body count to show off with today. If you weren't getting married to that twat, I'd now say something along the lines of "destiny does have its reasons after all".

It's really fucking cold outside, especially at night. I return from the carpentry at almost midnight and try to see the biting cold as something positive (at least I'm not dead, right? ha.). It's better inside our building, even if not by much. Everything is silent but for my footsteps on the dark green tiles. The lights are busted since forever so it surprises me to see a light from down the corridor. I don't exactly know why, but I follow it.

Turns out it leads to the janitor's office. I stay around that corner for a while and watch the man inside. It's not Gabe. So Sam _was_ right - there is a night shift of some sort? Who would need a janitor in the middle of the fucking night anyway? Fucking nepotism.

He's going through papers, piece by piece, head bowed to see better. I don't know why but I have a feeling there's something wrong about this picture. The scruff, the janitor overall... I dunno. He should wear a suit. Or at least a white button-down or something.

"You must be Dean," I hear him say after a while. The little service hatch thing is open.

I squint through the darkness. How the fuck did he see me?

"You can come closer, you know. There's some coffee left if you want."

I squint harder. Ugh. Fine. Whatever. I emerge from my "hiding" spot (yeah fuck you) and trot into the cone of light that his little office lamp showers the corridor with. "An' you know my name because...?"

His eyes dart up then and I stop in my steps. I've never seen eyes like that - a blue so bright that it's almost white, wide and open and knowing as if he could stare right through me. I hate him already. He's giving me the fucking _creeps_. "Because Sam told me, of course."

"Ah, _Sam_ ," I muse, smile, lean against the window with my hip and eyebrow cocked. "My little brother Sam who you've been flirting with recently?"

He blinks. "I wouldn't say that 'flirting' is the right term."

"How'd _you_ call it then?"

He puts down his pen and doesn't avert his eyes where I put pressure on them with mine. "It's just conversations. Sometimes when he comes back after work, we talk for a while." He puts the lid back on the pen. "I am grateful for his company. As you can imagine, my job is very quiet."

"What do you talk about with him?"

"... Is this an interrogation?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

Through the glass, we stare at each other. He folds his hands in front of him. I keep my arms crossed tight on my chest.

He sighs. "Sam told me this would eventually happen."

I sneer. "Ah yeah?"

"Yes." For the first time, I see his eyes move. They scan my face, sweep over my body. Great. Now I have goose bumps. Freak. "He told me you could be... insistent."

Now, I laugh. "Is that so?"

"Yes," he says. "Gabriel said the same thing."

"Gabe?"

"My brother. I believe you two met."

"Ah." Oh hell no. "And you are...? 'Cause, you know, you know so goddamn much about me, but Sam didn't even tell me your _name_."

"It's Castiel," he says.

Casti... what? I laugh. " _Castiel_ , _Gabriel_... Someone had a hard-on for bible references, huh."

His jaw tightens. "Our father was a religious man."

I let him burn under my eyes for a beat, two. So this guy knows I'm banging his brother. And, yeah, I _do_ know how Gabe is - he probably didn't go short on the details. I lean closer against the window, until my forehead is almost touching it. This feels strange, talking through the glass like that. As if we were inmate and guard, wild animal and zoo visitor. I haven't decided yet who's on which side.

"Alright. Anyway, Castiel." I smile, he doesn't. He probably knows mine is anything but a reach out for sympathy. "We could do this all night, you know; you pulling this poker face and me pretending I'm not completely pissed off at it. But to be honest with you - I'm tired. So I wanna say this once and I don't wanna repeat myself."

His face doesn't falter.

"Stay. Away. From Sam."

No reaction.

"Good talk," I say, smack the window with a little too much force. He doesn't startle as much as I hoped it would make him do, but he flinches. Heh. "Good night."

I've already made the first few steps towards the stairs when I hear his voice again. I freeze. "Do you consider me a threat, Dean?"

I turn around, look him up and down. And the day had started so so _good_. I return to my spot, stare him down.

Those eyes. I hate those eyes. "I promise you, there is no need for that."

"Kinda early point in our relationship to start making promises, darling."

"You don't believe me," he says. It's not a question.

"I remember saying that I don't wanna repeat myself."

"What do you gain from keeping him isolated like that?"

"What do I- What?!"

"All he talks about is you, Dean," Castiel says. " He does not meet friends, he does not go on activities or parties like boys his age normally would. Where is he when he is not at college, not at work? He's with _you_."

My laugh comes out without my permission. "You have ISSUES, man!"

"Says the man who tries to pass his lover as his brother."

I make a few steps, toss my head.

"What made you feel the need to lie about something bizarre like that anyway?"

"Ever crossed your mind that maybe _Sam_ woulda lied to you about that?"

"He wouldn't."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I know an honest soul when I see one."

"You're a monk when you're not mopping floors, huh?"

"I used to be, actually."

"Maybe they kicked you out 'cause you couldn't keep your hands off the altar boys?"

"Maybe it arouses you to pretend that Sam is Jensen?"

My fist slams hard enough against the glass to make it rattle but the asshole is unfazed, so I do it again, again-

"This is security glass. It will not break like this."

I go for the door.

"Dean."

I kick it, ram my shoulder into it. It doesn't budge. I barely feel the pain of the impact but I yell anyway.

"Dean, stop. It's no use."

"Come close to him ONE MORE TIME and I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL KILL YOU!!"

Those eyes keep looking up at me from behind that desk, behind that thick layer of glass. "Can't you see that he's already yours? Is it that important to you to hurt him?"

I kick the glass and he flinches at the loud bang of it. "FUCK YOU!!"

I storm off.

I can't see the stairs I'm climbing, can barely fit the key into the lock. I throw my jacket off of me, my boots, jeans. I'm standing over Sam who's stirring awake at my heavy breathing.

"Dean...?"

"You're not seeing that guy again."

His eyes swim as he tries to make a sense out of what I'm saying.

"Never again, Sam. Did I make myself clear?"

"What? I... _Who_? I-"

He bolts backwards into the pillows but I get him anyway, push his wrists deep into the bedding, dig my knee into his stomach. When he gasps for air to yelp out, I shush him, have him pinned with my eyes a mere inch from his own. He swallows. I feel him starting to sweat.

I talk slowly, very slowly, in a whisper. "Did I make myself clear, Sam? Yes. Or. No?"

"Y-yes," he croaks.

My face softens. "Good." My knee slides until I straddle him. Slowly, I let my hands relax, feel if he puts resistance into his muscles or not. He's as soft as butter under me. His breathing is flat and panicked but he lets it rush through his nostrils, keeps his mouth screwed shut. Like a scared rabbit.

I hear myself say, "Good, Sammy. Good." When my hands are completely off him, relief squeezes a sigh out of him.

My fist smashes into his cheek.

Both our bodies jolt from the impact and the pain in my knuckles makes me hiss. I cradle my hand, spit a curse. Sam doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. I can feel his heartbeat through his stomach where I'm still sitting.

I want to hurt. I want to _tear_.

"Strip," I pant.

His reaction is too slow for my likings so I grab his shorts myself, rip them down, feel his hand tugging at my wrist, hear that choked "no". "I thought you _liked_ pain," I hiss, try to wrestle him to his stomach.

"No, Dean, _no_ ; wait wait wait, please wait-"

"You told him," I spit, voice low and deep like I have never heard it before. Sam won't stop squirming. "You told him EVERYTHING! A STRANGER, an' you jus' tell him EVERYTHING about us!!"

"Not with John outside, please, please Dean, _please_ -"

I stop moving.

I look down at my hand around the back of Sam's neck where I strangle him hard enough to make the skin wrinkle.

I feel his sweat underneath my skin, the tremor in his entire body.

I hear the tears in his voice.

My body recoils and I almost fall off the bed.

What did I just do?

What... what did I...

"Oh God."

"Dean-"

"Oh God, oh God, I-"

"Dean, it's okay, it's alright, you-"

"Nonononono, oh God, what have I-"

"I'm okay, I'm alright; calm down, I'm here, Dean, I'm here."

He grabs my face, turns it to face him. It's already starting to bruise, oh God, how did I- How could I-

He presses our foreheads together, rocks us back and forth. I stare into his furrowed eyebrows, the droplets of water in his lashes.

"It's okay, it's okay, don't worry, it's okay, it's okay."

He does that for a long time, until I feel myself relax and sink deeper into his hold on my jaw. I let him cradle me, kiss me. I taste his blood, feel the cold sweat on my own skin running down my spine.

How did this happen? Why do I have to be like this?

"It's not your fault, it's okay-"

No, no, it isn't; I-

He kisses me again, lies me down, pushes his hand on my chest. I feel my heartbeat drum against that pressure, try to let it pull me back into the here and now, search for his mouth, get it offered. Again, blood.

I find the harbor of the nape of his neck and start sobbing.

Now Sam is the one shushing me.

I wake up and I feel awful. I turn to check on Sam and he doesn't look any better. Worse, actually. I kiss him and he cranes his neck for more. I whisper, "I'm so sorry baby," and he answers, "I'm alright," and at least one of those is a lie and it's so fucked up that I don't even know anymore.

Dad is already up when I emerge from the bedroom, follows me with his eyes until I arrive at the kitchen counter where pour myself a cup of coffee. I hear Sam come out as well - then Dad's chair, then Dad's steps, then feel his hand on my shoulder spinning me around, then the punch to my face.

The impact knocks me down and I spill the coffee, crash the cup on the floor. I curl in on me and cover my head with my arms (old habits die hard) - but no kick comes, no more punches. I listen to my own panting, the gushing of my blood in my ears.

"This will not happen again." The three of us know that it's the only warning I'll get.

Sam and me walk side to side, hands entwined, heads bowed. We look pretty stupid with our bruises blooming on our cheeks that sting in the cold air. When we have to go into different directions at a crossroads, I give him a tender kiss and squeeze his hand. "Will I see you after school?"

"Yeah," he says.

We part.

I get nasty comments at work but I laugh them off. They consider a bar fight or a jealous boyfriend of a girl I banged or something and I can only shake my head with how much I wished it was that easy. Nobody mentions how I sent my almost fifty-year-old Dad to do my work. Junior Boss shakes my hand like always, nods. "Good to have you back," he just says.

The sun paints the whole city in orange and gold. I have a smoke, let my gaze wander. Is the weather just as beautiful where you are, Jen? Will you have a winter or summer wedding? I think summer would be prettier. A white suit and a tan would look stunning on you. Then again, your old man sweats so easily... maybe you guys'll stick with winter.

You're missing me. I still can't make sense out of it. Me. How could you _miss_ me?

I don't think I'll be able to come, Jen. You'll have to celebrate without me. I have a feeling I'd ruin everything, maybe lunge at Jay with the cake knife or something like that.

You might be the one who left, but I'm the one who can't bear to let you return.

I'm not ready. I don't know if I'll ever be.

My feet carry me over the sun-warm pavement, everything golden, everything beautiful. I haven't noticed how beautiful anything can be for quite a while now. I just work, survive, you know? Or I try to. I'm not so sure I'm doing a great job at it. But I try today, really try to take it all in, even have a short break to watch a young mother sing to her baby while her little daughter bounces up and down on her lap, trying to sing along. They laugh every now and then and I imagine hearing the baby chortle, too. My smile doesn't leave me for several minutes.

Almost at Sarah's place, I get a text from Sam: _Already in. Come upstairs._ What a waste at this kind of weather, but eh. He doesn't like being stared at and the bruise probably got him into enough awkward conversations today, so I guess I understand him.

The painting is already turned and I enter the flat through the unlocked door.

Sarah is standing in front of me.

"Oh," I say. "Hi." I close the door behind me. The girl's tense. I brace myself, sigh. "Where's Sam?"

"I could call the police, you know."

"But you didn't."

"Yeah, because he won't LET ME!" She's so frustrated. Yeah, I can relate, sister. "Seriously, I- I don't know what to do with you guys! You went too far, Dean, WAY too far!"

I shove my hands into my pockets, shrug. "Can't exactly undo it. It's not like I'm proud of what I did."

Sarah's hair bounces when she moves. Her lips are stiff, her jaw tight. Sam's phone is in her hand. "Why are you doing this to him?" She unlocks the screen with Sam's pin code, taps with shaking, stabbing fingers. Then, she shoves the screen into my face.

A video is playing. Yeah. I know that video.

My eyes drift from phone to her eyes and find tears. "Does he know you're sniffing around in his stuff, sweetheart?"

"This is not the only one," she sniffles, takes the phone back, clasps her fingers around it. "Here... and here... and that one... and... Why... Why are you sending him this stuff?"

"I don't know."

"Does it- does it get you off or something?! To show him how worthless he is to you?! That you're jumping everything and everyone you can get your hands on as soon as he's got his back turned to you for a, a single second?!"

I shrug.

"You KNOW what you mean to him!!"

"If it bothers him, he's free to leave."

Her mouth gapes, her eyes swim.

I shrug again. "It's not like I'm forcing him to do anyth-"

She slaps the side of my face that isn't already bruised.

I avoid her eyes, roll mine, sigh. "Sarah. He's not playing for your 'team'. You know that, right?"

"This is not about me!"

"Well, good, 'cause that boy wouldn't know how to handle pussy even if he had a manual."

"I thought I could trust you with him," she sobs.

I stare at the ground, her little shoe collection next to the door. Sam wouldn't ever ask her to speak up to me like this, more likely would deter her from doing it. I don't know why she's doing this to herself.

"I thought that, after all what he told me about you, that you'd- You know?! 'Hard shell, soft core' or some shit like that! But now you're BEATING him?! And these videos, these pictures, I-" Her hair flies around her shoulders as she lets her entire body jump with an outraged wail. She throws her arms and I smell her perfume, her sweat. She's really beautiful. Her and Sam would make a great couple. Her mascara-blackened tears rolls down her cheeks. "No matter what I say to him, how hard I beg... He just won't listen to me. All he does is... is smile at me and. And he just says, 'he needs me, I can't just leave him' and 'but I love him, Sarah'."

There's a white pair of pumps she probably wears to clubs. They're worn out and taken care of well. I smile. "Yeah," I hum. "Yeah. That's Sam."

I look up at him when he enters the tiny flat. He seems surprised to see me waiting here.

I get to my feet, walk over to him where he loses his parka and sneakers.

"I lost my phone," he confesses as he turns around.

I put my arms around his tiny waist and pull him close, shut my eyes and kiss him. His hands come down on my shoulders, close to my neck. "Sarah," I tell him as I let his phone slip into his back pockets.

"... Oh," Sam says.

"Yeah," I chuckle.

"... Dean..."

"I ain't mad," I whisper, "I ain't mad at all, baby. It's alright."

We kiss slowly, almost hesitant. Both our faces hurt like shit but somehow I don't think that's the reason for it.

His mouth tastes like stomach acids and stale blood. He must have bitten the inside of his cheek yesterday, or I busted it with the impact of the punch. Our noses brush against each other. I leave his mouth, run my lips over his skin, along his cheek to his temple, down the line of his jaw, the side of his neck. He relaxes into my hands, always trusting, always craving. My Sam. My baby boy.

I just smell him, only that. His skin is something special, you know, Jen? Different than ours somehow. I really like its scent, its texture. He's got those tiny hairs everywhere and they're as soft as downs against me. I kiss his neck, up again, without a real destination in mind. I just want to feel him, soak myself in everything he has. His head droops a little until we're cheek to cheek, pulsing hot bruise against its twin, and I say twin and can't remember how your wounds used to feel like underneath my hands.

We undress each other piece by piece. It's not too easy since we're trying not to lose contact but we make it eventually. My eyes are still closed and I have a feeling his are, too. I lay my hands around the back of his neck, run them down his shoulder blades, his flanks, and up again, over his shoulders, arms. Back up to his face, I cradle it, kiss him again. He lets me. Always lets me do everything. I don't know, but today it's different.

On the bed on our sides, facing each other, neither of us is erect. The heater is working on full power and we lie on top of the soft covers, silky and delicate just like your skin that you wrap around me. The tender spots in the crooks of your arms, the insides of your thighs; I run the back of my hands over them, taste your breath on my lips, your curling hair against my forehead and between our mouths.

You sigh. It's a wonderful sound. Safe and secure and you know it's going to be alright. You always seem to think that. I don't know how you do it. If I asked you, I wonder what you would tell me.

Who else do you tell you love me? I know we don't say it to each other, know you couldn't bear not to hear it back from me, couldn't take the laughter I'd direct at you for being such a sissy. But you do, don't you? You love me. You love me.

I wonder what you look like when you tell them. Do you look like back then, on Louisiana Street with your toy in the grass and my request to show us around in your ears? Like back then, when I let you drive Baby for the first time? Like back then, when you caught me watching you sleep, your voice tiny and raw with "you freak"? I like to imagine you look just like that when you tell them.

"I don't think I'll make it to that wedding," I tell you.

"I know," you answer. After a while, you add: "Would it be okay if _I_ went?"

My eyes slowly open. He looks at me, small and sleepy and the bruise spreads almost up to his eye now. My fingers avoid it when I brush them along his neck. "Do you want to?"

"Yeah," he says.

I look at him, try to dodge the pain that will shoot through me any second now. But nothing comes. All there is is warmth, sun, Sam's skin, Sam's eyes. Your eyes, Sam.

"Alright," I tell you.

Your eyes droop and your smile broadens. It must hurt to get a dimple hollowed out on that cheek, and maybe that's why your lashes are a little wet in the corner of your eye.

I smile along. "Will you tell him I'm sorry?"

"Yes," you say.

"... Will you come back after it's over?"

"Of course," you say, snicker. "What else is there for me to do?"

"Okay," I sigh. "Yeah. Okay."

There is not much that I know. I'm not too smart and I guess the booze and pills got a good share of my brain cells when I let them rule me. I know that I have a Dad and a brother and a car and that I would do anything for those. I know that my Mom was called Mary and that my Dad keeps a photograph of her in his wallet that he never lost, no matter how often he lost himself.

I know that I have problems. I know that the best hands I could be in would be those of the legal authorities or that shrink you suggested I should see. Maybe ten of those. An entire army.

Maybe, maybe I know that you mean it when you say those things. I guess I'm just too stupid to actually believe that I know it, you know, Sammy?

And I want to believe. I really, really want to.

Maybe one day, I'll be brave enough. Until then, you gotta hold on, okay?

I know you can do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One (or two at the most) more fic is planned for this verse. We are not done yet.  
> Coming soon: Timestamps.


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